Relative Strangers

by Joyce Lamb

  Prologue

  Twin headlights thrust aside the darkness as Margot Rhinehart steered the black Lexus into the long, winding driveway. The air conditioner was on full blast to combat both the unusual humidity of the October night and the nerves that made her palms damp against the steering wheel. She had directed the vent right at her face minutes ago, hoping the steady stream of artificial breeze would help clear her head. The weight of her hair lay heavily against the back of her neck, and she pushed the thick length back. Southwest Florida was too humid to have such long hair. If Beau hadn't liked it so much, she would have lopped it all off in an instant.

  Thinking of him churned her stomach, and she gripped the steering wheel as the car rounded the last curve in the tree-lined drive and the house loomed out of the darkness. Jagged lightning flashed behind it, and the thunder that followed seemed to shake the car. Rain had yet to fall, but it would be only a matter of minutes.

  As the car rolled to a stop, Margot studied the tall white columns, marble steps and floor-to-ceiling windows. It looked different, and she knew her perspective had changed. She was not the same woman she'd been when she'd first seen Beau Kama's estate.

  But that wasn't it. The house wasn't supposed to be dark. She checked her watch. After nine. The lights should have been blazing by now, emphasizing the home's best features while discouraging burglars.

  Her heart hammered as she shut off the car and rummaged through the glove box for a flashlight. Her hands began to shake, and she told herself to calm down. The storm had evi-dently knocked out the power. That was all. She remembered the many times she had huddled in Beau's arms on the sec-ond-floor balcony, watching as an afternoon thunderstorm raged above the Gulf of Mexico, a frightening yet spectacular show. But she'd been with Beau—protected. Now, he wasn't here, and she couldn't help but feel jittery.

  Margot wiped a damp palm down one jean-clad leg before stepping from the car into the heavy, wet air. A strong breeze blew the hair back from her face and rattled the palm fronds overhead. In the distance, she heard forceful waves breaking on the beach.

  Her steps faltered when the lights blinked on, outside and inside. She glanced up at the corner of the porch and saw the red eye of a surveillance camera blinking at her. Switching off the flashlight, she stepped through the front door. Every light in the house seemed to be on.

  "Beau?" she called. "Are you here?"

  Silence.

  She checked the living room, taking in the masculine, black leather furniture and glass-topped tables that screamed for a feminine touch. One of these days, she would take care of that. When we're married, she thought. The one thing she wouldn't change was the framed photograph on one wall, taken several years before by Beau's brother. A child of war with striking, sad, blue eyes, clutching a ragged teddy bear to her dirty dress, gazed straight into the camera. There was something about the photo that clutched at Margot's heart every time she saw it. She avoided glancing at it now as she headed for Beau's office.

  There, she saw that his computer and all the gadgets attached to it were off. The large square picture of a Florida beach scene that hid the wall safe was just as she had left it that afternoon—a tiny bit crooked. She considered returning what she had stolen earlier but didn't know whether Beau was home. It would be better to wait until she was certain he was asleep or gone. Then he would never have to know.

  Passing through the dining room, she flinched as lightning flashed beyond the windows. During the day, the windows provided a view of the beach and the beautiful expanse of the Gulf. Now, there was just darkness occasionally vanquished by lightning.

  She mounted the carpeted steps that led upstairs, tapping the flashlight against her thigh. Thunder boomed, and she jolted again. "Beau?"

  She told herself to relax. He was probably just playing with her as part of the surprise he had promised her that morning. Her birthday surprise.

  At the top of the carpeted steps, she paused. The master bedroom appeared to be the only room in the house that was dark. "Beau? Come on, stop teasing."

  No response.

  She hit the light switch. Nothing happened.

  "Damn it, Beau. This isn't funny."

  She forgot the flashlight and stepped into the room, muscles tense, expecting him to jump out at her. "Beau?" She tried to sound pathetic to let him know he was getting to her.

  Her foot encountered something soft but heavy. Lightning flared, and she saw a bulky shape on the floor. A person. Her breath caught, her fingers clumsy as she fumbled for the

  button on the flashlight and pushed it. Thunder cracked.

  She screamed and backed out of the room too fast, dropping the flashlight. It hit the floor and winked out. Her back struck the wall across from the bedroom, and she slid down it, clamping a hand over her mouth.

  She could smell the blood, coppery and metallic. Bile surged into her throat. She choked it back. Maybe he was still alive.

  Maybe it wasn't Beau.

  She pushed herself up and staggered toward the dark bed-room. Light. She needed light. Picking up the flashlight, she shook it, but it was dead.

  The bathroom light. Taking a deep breath, she plunged into the room, careful to steer clear of the body. When she stumbled over an object that clinked, she dropped to her knees and ran her hands over the smooth, cool surface of a lamp base. The cord flopped in her hand. It was unplugged.

  She crawled toward the wall, where she knew there was an outlet next to the bureau. It took her several tries to align the prongs with the outlet and plug it in. Without its shade, the light was blinding. Still on her knees, she turned.

  It was Beau.

  A neat, black hole between his eyes.

  Blood everywhere.

  Margot couldn't move. His eyes were open, and there was no mistaking the blankness of that stare.

  Compelled by the need to be sure, she reached forward and pressed trembling fingers to the place in his neck where there should have been a pulse. Nothing. Just blood that wet her fingers.

  He was still warm.

  She gagged, crabbing back on all fours. The heavy dresser halted her retreat, and she used it to pull herself to her feet.

  Gasping, she snatched up the bedside phone and called nine-one-one.

  A woman answered.

  "I need help," Margot said.

  "What is the nature of your emergency?" the woman asked.

  Margot heard the tap-tap of computer keys. She swung around to look at Beau in the unnatural light cast by the shadeless lamp on the floor. The shadows made his eye sockets look empty. Her chest convulsed with a dry sob.

  "I'm dispatching emergency vehicles to your address right now. Please tell me the nature of the emergency so they can be prepared to help quickly," the woman said.

  Margot forced herself to look away from Beau and froze.

  Blood on the mirror.

  Scrawled words.

  Happy Birthday! Love, Slater.

  She saw her image reflected through the blood; her dark hair was wild, and her green eyes wide with shock. And she saw the snapshot of her and Beau that he had pressed between the mirror and the frame a week ago.

  "Oh, God." Her knees buckled, and the phone clunked to the floor.

  "No," she whimpered, her fingers curling into the carpet. "You son of a bitch. Son of a bitch."

  Sirens drove her to her feet. With another hoarse denial, she smeared the words on the mirror, erasing the message, then stumbled out of the bedroom. She skidded halfway down the stairs, her feet almost sliding out from under her in the tiled entryway.

  Sirens wailed closer as Margot leapt down the porch steps and raced for the Lexus. Her fingers slipped on the door handle, and she realized why as she wiped them on her jeans.
/>   They were coated with Beau's blood.

  Moaning, she yanked the door open and dove into the car, fumbling for the keys in her front pocket. The jeans were tight, the way Beau liked, and she had to arch her back, straightening her body in the confines of the driver's seat, to cram her fingers into the pocket.

  Her hands trembled violently, but she managed to get the key into the ignition on the first try as fat raindrops began to splat against the windshield. When she jammed it into gear, the car jumped forward.

  Hurry, damn it, hurry.

  She didn't ease up on the accelerator even as she rounded the first curve of the driveway and banked too high. Tires bit into the lawn, spun for a second, churning up grass and dirt, then caught on the edge of the asphalt. At the end of the drive, she jerked the steering wheel to the left, leaving mud and tread marks in her wake.

  Flashing red lights appeared behind her, and she pressed the accelerator to the floor, tears burning her eyes.

  The vent blew icy air at her face, but Margot barely noticed as her brain began to decipher what had happened.

  Happy Birthday!

  Love, Slater.

  Chapter 1

  Three Months Later . . .

  Meg Grant rolled down the car window and propped her elbow on it, unable to tame the smile of satisfaction that curved her lips. It was January tenth. Seventy-five degrees. Not a cloud in the dazzling blue sky. Life was good. Damned good.

  In twenty minutes, she would be at Southwest Florida International Airport to pick up Dayle, her first visitor since she'd moved to Florida. Meg was looking forward to sharing with her closest friend the excitement of a new city. She had lived in Fort Myers a month and was just learning the court-house beat at the newspaper. Although it was all very new and thrilling, she missed home. Not the cold, of course. Christmas had seemed odd without snow, but that hadn't been the only strangeness this year—it had been her first Christmas since her parents had died.

  With a slight shake of her head, Meg turned on the CD player. Nothing like a Melissa Etheridge tune to steer her mind away from depressing thoughts.

  She made it to the airport with minutes to spare and marveled at how convenient it was to zoom into a parking space just yards from the terminal. No parking garages, no confusing signs, no impatient drivers and rude hand gestures. Fort Myers was blessedly laidback compared with the harried pace of the Chicago suburbs. She had yet to regret the move, had yet to miss the smog and sub-zero temperatures.

  In the terminal, Meg boarded the escalator, grinning at the three papier-mache manatees suspended from the ceiling. At the second level, she checked the overhead monitors. Dayle's flight would be arriving any moment.

  Meg hurried to the gate, imagining her friend on the plane, cramming legal pads and her PalmPilot into her black leather briefcase. Dayle, even though this was supposed to be her vacation, had probably not left her work at home. Meg couldn't blame her. She was the same, dragging a laptop with her pretty much wherever she went. You never knew when a Pulitzer Prize-winning news story would break right in front of you.

  Pausing in front of the windows, Meg saw airport personnel preparing to unload the plane's cargo. The first passengers were trickling through the gate when a black limousine glided to a stop on the tarmac. Curious, she watched as the back door opened and a man stepped out.

  A businessman, she assumed. A well-paid businessman, by the cut of his suit. He wore sunglasses and shoes as shiny black as the car.

  Standing next to the limo, a breeze blowing tangles of dark hair across his forehead, he reminded her of a model in an ad-vertisement for men's cologne. He had the body-broad shoulders suggested that muscles rippled under that tailored jacket, and a lean waist spoke of regular workouts and skipped desserts. His jaw was angular and clenched as if in perpetual anger, his chin nearly square, with a cleft.

  Yes, he definitely had the "I'm-a-great-smelling-guy" look. All he needed was a blond, too-thin goddess in a form-fitting red dress clinging to his arm.

  He removed his sunglasses, and Meg realized with a jolt that he did it to see her better. The blazing Florida sun made him narrow his eyes, and she resisted the urge to shift under the probe of his gaze. She wanted to glance away but couldn't, as if the stare-down had become a dare to see who would buckle first.

  A reflection in the window caught her eye, and Meg pivoted, grinning at the woman she'd known since they were both gangly, looking-for-trouble kids living on the same block. The man and his limo were instantly forgotten.

  Dayle dropped her carry-on, and they hugged.

  "God, it's great to see you," Meg said.

  Dayle, a small woman with blond hair, brown eyes, and a shrewd gaze, drew back to look her friend up and down. "Jesus, you're even more stunning than usual. What is that? A tan?"

  Meg's smile grew at the compliment. She didn't think of herself as beautiful. Her slimness was more athletic than willowy. Her dark brown hair—auburn-streaked now that she had spent some time in the sun—was long, curly and in her face if she didn't tie it back into a loose ponytail. A former lover had said her green eyes reminded him of the ocean off the shores of Jamaica, a more-green-than-blue shade that hid the undercurrents of her emotions too well.

  She wore simple clothes by necessity—slacks and flat, comfortable shoes—because chasing after defense attorneys and prosecutors for quotes wasn't practical or comfortable in a fancy dress and heels. Dayle had once kept a tally of her male lawyer acquaintances, who, knowing the women were friends, had pumped her for information about Meg. Although Meg assumed that Dayle exaggerated, the compliments never failed to give her confidence a boost.

  "Yes, believe it or not, I have a tan line," Meg said. "First one since high school. But then, I live on the Gulf. What's a girl to do in her free time but hang out at the beach?"

  "Yeah, right. I can see you lounging on a towel, computer planted on your lap." Dayle glanced around. "I'm starving."

  Meg laughed as she scooped up Dayle's carry-on. "You're always starving. First, your luggage. Follow me."

  They took their time walking to the baggage claim, discussing Dayle's flight and the frigid air she had left behind. On the escalator, Meg slipped an arm around her waist and gave her another hug. "I've missed you."

  "I wish you could have made it home for the holidays. My family was asking about you," Dayle said.

  "Someone had to cover the news."

  "I felt bad that you spent Christmas by yourself."

  "I was too busy to notice."

  Dayle took the cue that Meg wasn't ready to talk about her first Christmas since she'd lost her parents almost six months ago. "Well, the Midwest isn't the same without you," Dayle said.

  "Still cold, though, I presume?"

  Dayle grinned. "As hell. Good God, what are those?"

  Meg glanced up at the papier-mache sea cows dangling over the escalator and laughed. "Manatees. They're endangered."

  "Uh-huh."

  "They're so ugly they're cute. You can buy license plates with a manatee on them, and the extra money goes to a wildlife fund. You can even swim with them."

  After the escalator deposited them on the first level, Dayle made her way to a baggage carousel that had yet to start. Meg hovered at the edge of the crowd of newly arrived vacationers and took the moment to check in with her editor at the newspaper.

  She had just turned off her cell phone when a hand grasped her upper arm. "We have to talk," a man said near her ear.

  Startled as she was, Meg felt no real fear. People often mistook her for someone they knew—she had one of those faces. But when she turned toward him, recognition stole the words from her lips. He was even more gorgeous up close, taller than she had guessed, and he did indeed smell good, like soap and wind. His jaw was set, muscles bunching into knots at his temples. Sunglasses were perched on his head.

  His fingers dug into her flesh as he herded her toward a short hallway that branched off the baggage claim area.

  "I'm afraid
you—"

  "Shut up and come on."

  His rudeness erased her courtesy. "Look, pal—"

  "I'm not your pal. Walk."

  She saw that the area where he was steering her was deserted and relatively secluded. Suddenly afraid, she dropped Dayle's bag and whacked his forearm with her phone. "Let go."

  His grip loosened, then tightened. "You're making a scene."

  "No shit. Let me go." She whacked him again, more startled by his nerve than his strength. "Help!"

  The clatter of a baggage carousel as it started up swallowed her cry. Catching her wrist, he twisted her arm behind her back and forced her toward the hallway. Any effort to jerk away increased the pressure he put on her arm and her certainty that he would not hesitate to break it.

  "You're making a big—"

  "Save your breath and walk."

  They were at the mouth of the hall when Meg rammed her head back into his jaw. Stars burst before her eyes, and she heard him grunt before she was free. She whirled. A wild punch snapped his head back, sent his sunglasses flying and pain singing up her arm into her shoulder.

  Unfazed, he shoved her back against the wall. She opened her mouth to scream, but his lips muffled the sound. She pushed at his chest until he pinned her wrists to the wall on either side of her head, deepening the kiss even while she tried to wrench her head to one side.

  Meg clamped her teeth together, narrowly missing the tip of his tongue. When he eased back, she hitched in a breath.

  "Don't scream," he said. "Or I'll do that again to shut you up."

  "Let me go." She struggled against him, alarmed to discover how intimately his body had trapped hers. Evidently, he didn't trust her to keep her knees to herself.

  Fear shuddered through her. She was at his mercy unless someone entered the small hallway. Even then, with him pressed against her, they nc doubt looked like just-reunited lovers stealing a passionate embrace.

  She drew another quick breath, but he crooked a finger across her lips. "Don't."

  He didn't appear to be a man who would need to assault a woman to get what he wanted from her. He was wearing an Armani suit, for God's sake, and he smelled as good as he looked. "What the hell are you doing?" she demanded, twisting her hands in his grasp.